“Don’t you forget it, War Boy.”
“Don’t call me that.”
She snorted a laugh.
Guyen picked up the discarded sword. He’d not held one for a long time. He thought back to Krell, to Yemelyan, to their hours of practise. Did he still have that muscle memory?
The rankers called again. “Get yourself back here, Ethur.” But Ethur didn’t get himself back. He was unlikely to get himself back from anywhere, ever again.
They concealed themselves once more. An owl hooted. Foliage rustled in the breeze. Torchlight drew closer, frosty twigs cracking under heavy boots. Guyen breathed hot, moist air up over his numb nose. Was killing them the only way? It felt wrong.
Grunts and heavy breathing replaced the sound of the owl as the bayonet end of a musket glinted through the leaves. “Ethur?” The two men stopped several feet away.
One swore. “He’s dead. We got company.”
Rossi stepped out from behind the tree. “Lay down your weapons,” he barked. “You’re under arrest.”
What was the idiot doing? Where was Mist?
One of the rankers growled. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Rossi. First Battalion Renegades. I won’t ask again, gentlemen.”
“Are you on your own, son?”
The other man roared. “Get him!”
The rankers dropped their torches and shouldered their muskets. Rossi dived back behind the tree. Two gunshots rang out. He broke cover and charged. Fuck. Guyen stepped out to join him, incompetently swinging the dead man’s sword. These men were no drunk oafs, probably Cotes’ best, but Rossi advanced, fearless, the master swordsman. Guyen loosed Toulesh, searching out the Song in the clamour for any kind of advantage. The forest overlaid with Faze, the rankers’ swords tracing glowing red arcs in the blackness.
“Leave this to me,” Rossi bellowed, slashing at one man. He caught him on the shoulder.
Guyen stalked towards the other. “You heard him. Give it up!”
The ranker advanced.
Guyen waved the sword protectively in front of him, but suddenly, he was retreating. His back hit a tree, and the air whistled. Crack! His sleeve caught, a crossbow bolt pinning his coat to the trunk. “Rossi! There’s more!” He pulled at it, desperate to free himself, and the ranker approached. He slashed wildly in front of him, cursing his ineptitude, rage surging. The world hazed, and the Layer pulled. He was losing himself again.
The ranker, a streaming shadow now, brought back his sword. His mouth opened, voice slow and muffled. “Looks like you’re going to hell,” he growled. The premonition flashed, a gleaming, deadly line of nether light arcing down in the darkness.
Clang! Rossi’s blade parried the strike, sparks spraying the air as metal bit metal. Guyen jabbed with his sword, finding flesh. The ranker cried out, staggering backwards, as the other man attacked. “Behind you!” Guyen yelled.
Rossi pirouetted, elegant as a ballerina, and stuck the ranker in the armpit. The man screamed, and the Layer flashed crimson, as he crumpled, dying. Sparkling silver-grey nether light misted up into the branches.
Guyen struggled with the coat. He was a sitting duck. He fought Faze, trying not to see it, desperate to stay in this reality. He summoned Toulesh. No response. The surviving ranker looked more desperate in front of Rossi now, waving his sword like he was fending off a bear.
“Drop your weapon!” Rossi ordered. The man surrendered.
Guyen slipped from the coat, and bit his lip, grounding himself in the pain. The world returned to solidity. It was all very well being able to see in the dark, but if you stayed too long in the Overlay, sanity might never return. He ran over. “Don’t kill him, Rossi.”
“This is war,” the cadet snarled.
“He’s just following orders. Like you, remember?”
“But he’s a damn traitor.”
“He might know something.”
The man looked away.
Guyen grabbed a fistful of hair, yanking his head up. “How many of you are there?”
The ranker screamed. “Jansil, sound the alarm!”
Rossi smashed his hilt down on the man’s head. He collapsed.
Guyen picked up the fizzling torch and rolled the man over. A glistening gash striped the top of his head. He emitted no breaths, and had no pulse. “Fuck. You killed him.”
Rossi shrugged. “Good.”
Good? This was the opposite of good. Guyen scanned the forest. Just shadows. “We’ll double back,” he decided. “We can’t let whoever has that crossbow raise an alarm.” He slapped Rossi on the arm. “Thank you for stepping in.”
Rossi snorted. “Idiot. Where’s the girl?”
“Hallo boys.” They jumped. Mist formed from the shadows.
“Where have you been?” Guyen muttered sourly. “I thought you weren’t leaving my side?”
She pointed at the crossbow bolt acting as a coat hanger. “I’ve been looking for the scrag who shot that,” she said.
“And?”
“I missed him. But he can’t be far.”
Rossi wiped down his sabre. “Suggestions?”
Guyen took a deep breath, slowing his racing heart. “Let me try something.”
“What?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“More witchery, is it?”
“You have your Talent, I have mine. Shut up.” He summoned Toulesh. The simulacrum was close again, their connection restored. He appeared a second later, sloping out from behind a tree. Take a look, Guyen sent. The apparition faded into the night.
The owl hooted, breeze rustling the leaves.
“Well?” Rossi muttered.
Toulesh folded in from the west. A spike of danger bit. He’d found something, or someone.
Guyen thumbed back down the path. “That way.”
Rossi snorted. “How do you know that?”
“I just do. Come on, let’s split up. We’ll corner him. But let’s not kill him.”
“Course not, Greens,” Mist said. Rossi grunted reluctant agreement.
They spread out through the wood. It was better to see only the shadows and vague outlines afforded by scattered moonlight than to announce their presence with a lit torch, which unfortunately meant a scratched face. Still, Guyen edged stoically onwards, cursing every cracking twig, as Toulesh swept silently ahead, the forest a suggestion rather than obstruction to him.
A cry rang out from Rossi’s direction, then shouting and the clang of steel. Guyen broke into a run towards the sound, tripping over roots and branches. Two shadows appeared, one cowering in front of the other. Mist crashed up with a torch, illuminating Rossi’s prisoner. A crossbow hung over his shoulder. A scout. And he had a very tidy beard. It’s strange the things you notice.
“On your knees!” Guyen ordered, forcing him to the ground. “What is this place? What’s going on here?”
The ranker mumbled a prayer, offering no reply.
Mist crouched, touching her blade to his neck. “Tell us, or I’ll slit your throat.”
He gasped. “Fort Encasa. We’re protecting a Devotions operation. That’s all I know.” His words cascaded like a waterfall.
“Good,” Guyen said. “That’s better. How big is it? Where is it?”
“A few acres. Over the swamp. Who are you?”
“I’ll ask the questions, friend. How do we get in?”
The scout let out a wry laugh. “You don’t. Not unless you’re the invisible man.”
“Security tight, is it?”
“Yes, we’re ready to move out.”
“Where to?”
He grunted. “How the hell would I know?”
“Are there any prisoners there?”
“What?”
Guyen cuffed him round the head. It felt good. “Prisoners!” he roared. “Are there any fucking prisoners?”
“Yes, in the tower.”
“How many? Who are they?”
“I ain’t been up there.”
Mi
st lifted his chin with her blade. “What are they up to in there?”
The man twitched. “Making something. Some kind of chem.”
“Could you be a little less vague?” Guyen growled. “Vague makes me want to kill people.”
“I don’t know. I saw a blue liquid.”
“What kind of liquid?”
“We’re not supposed to ask questions.”
“But people do,” Mist purred.
He hesitated. “The men say it’s a drug. Something to do with the Binding.” He let out another whimper. “Please, don’t kill me. I got a wife and kids.”
“How many men are there in this fort?”
“The whole of Fifth Battalion.”
“A thousand,” Rossi said grimly.
Mist looked between them. “We should kill him.”
“Please don’t.” The man’s voice trembled. “I’ve been helpful, haven’t I?”
Guyen grimaced. Killing him was the smart thing to do. But then, sometimes honour outranks smart. “Doesn’t seem right,” he muttered. “Not when we can tie him up. There’s rope in my pack.”
“I hope we don’t die to regret it,” Mist said.
Guyen tugged on the scout’s cloak. “You think you might fit in this, Peeler?”
She regarded it. “A disguise? Good idea.”
“Get it on then. I’ll fetch the rope.”
The horses waited patiently where they’d left them. Guyen retrieved the rope from his saddlebag and jogged back. They bound and gagged the man, then tied him securely to a tree. Mist relieved him of his crossbow, springing a bolt.
They located the path and retraced their steps, but reaching the spot where they’d killed the three rankers, only two bodies lay.
Rossi swore. “Where’s the other one?”
“Idiots!” Mist cursed. “Why didn’t you kill him?”
Rossi growled. “I thought I did. Blame Yorkov, he checked him.”
“Come on!” She broke into a run.
They cleared the treeline. The missing ranker stood next to the fire, something glinting in his hand. He brought the object up to his lips. A bugle. In one easy motion, Mist knelt, brought the crossbow round, and loosed the bolt. It stuck the man in the chest. He cried out, collapsed to his knees, and fell face-first into the fire.
For a moment, silence reigned. Guyen stole a glance at Mist. “You’re quite something,” he said, not sure whether to be scared or grateful for the assassin’s deadly charms. He scanned the clearing. Nothing else moved. “How many people have you killed?”
“More than one, less than a thousand.”
Rossi snorted. “Well, the night’s still young.”
She offered a wild grin, teeth a white streak in the moonlight.
They hurried over to make sure the ranker really was dead this time. He was—a bolt through the heart will do that for a man. The bugle he’d been about to blow lay at his feet. What had they done? Were they murderers? Was this really war like Rossi claimed? Damn. Morality’s such a movable feast. Guyen stripped the man of his vest, red jacket and bicorn, and they dragged him into the woods, moving all the bodies away from the path. They’d not be discovered till morning. On Guyen’s suggestion, Rossi swapped his jacket too—better to display Fifth Battalion’s insignia than the First’s tonight.
On closer inspection, the way across the swamp revealed as a series of floating pontoons, the roadway on top wide enough for a cart. It disappeared into the reeds, creaking gently on the stagnant water. Their course was set. They went back for the horses, and Rossi unhooked the bird carrier from his saddle. The Blackcap fluttered inside.
“I shall send a message now I have located the traitors,” he informed them.
Guyen nodded. What did he care if the cadet took the credit? Someone needed to know, in case they didn’t return.
Rossi produced a pencil and scribbled a few words on a strip of parchment, then poked it into a capsule and clipped it carefully onto the Blackcap’s leg. “Good luck, my friend,” he murmured, and released the bird into the night.
44
The Dark and the Girl
They crossed the swamp, the only sounds the occasional splash within the reeds and the horses’ icy hooves. Guyen took the lead, slipping focus to use the vague nether light hugging the edges of the pontoons as a guide. Falling into the freezing water didn’t bear thinking about. After several hundred yards, they reached the other side. The relief was palpable.
So was Rossi’s discontent. “I can’t feel my feet anymore,” he grumbled.
Mist regarded the track in front of them. “Don’t be a sap. Drink more Comfort.”
“It’s all gone.”
“Best not stay here and freeze then,” Guyen said. “They’re bound to change guards at some point.” He coaxed Smoker ahead with a gentle kick. The dirt track headed up an incline, the ground firming, and Encasa’s battlements materialised beyond several lines of tall trees—a charcoal silhouette against the starry sky.
Rossi passed his eyeglass. “Looks like they’ve been hard at work. There’s cannon up on those walls.”
Despite the big moon, features were elusive from here, but the walls were tall, and a tower glinted, dwarfing several smaller turrets. The only entrance appeared to be a portcullised gate. Guyen passed the eyeglass to Mist. “Any ideas?” he asked.
She scanned the view for a moment. “We should ride around to where the trees are closest to the wall. There might be enough cover to make it across the grass there.”
“Then what?”
“We’ll look for a way in.”
Rossi snorted. “Cotes is a professional soldier. He’ll have weak spots reinforced.”
“Where there’s a wall, there’s a way,” Mist said.
“Optimistic sort, isn’t she?” Rossi muttered.
“It’s one of her better qualities.”
Mist huffed. “You can stay here, War Boy. If we don’t return in an hour, get yourself back to the city and bring reinforcements.”
“Absolutely not,” Rossi protested. “I’m coming. Orders, remember?”
“No, she’s right,” Guyen said. “If we get caught, you’ll need to ride for help. It’s fine, in and out, like she says. We find my brother and get a sample of this new concoction. You’ll hardly know we were gone.”
“Then what?”
“I fix my brother, we take the evidence to Council, Jal gets what’s coming, and you get your promotion.” It was a good plan, if wildly optimistic.
Rossi cursed. “Very well. See you in an hour then, I hope.”
Mist smacked her Chestnut’s rear. “Trot on.”
The cadet turned his mount for the cover of the trees. Could they really trust him? “Don’t get spotted,” Guyen called back.
“I think it’s you who should worry about that,” he returned. Guyen nudged Smoker into a trot after Mist, and Rossi faded to black.
Using the woods for cover, they circled around to the west side of the fort and dismounted at the point closest to the walls, tying the horses to a tree. There was no sign of life out here, only overgrown grass and piles of rubble.
Mist pointed up at the battlements as two sentries appeared, flaming torches glinting on their helms. “If we get the timing right, we shouldn’t be seen,” she said. The men marched out of view. “Now!” She sprinted for the wall. Guyen gave chase, and a few seconds later they stood in the fort’s deep shadow. Footsteps and voices passed by overhead. Mist motioned towards the northwest corner and began picking her way over the rubble. Guyen followed, Toulesh at his side, scanning the defences for a way in.
Unfortunately, the wall was in surprisingly good shape. Where it had failed, earthworks and timbers shored it up and extra sentries kept watch. A small door appeared a few yards along, but a quick inspection revealed solid oak and thick metalwork. Impregnable. They continued on, negotiating fallen stone and detritus, feet crunching in the long, crisp grass. Wherever the fortification was climbable, razor-sharp spikes h
ad been hammered into the masonry, making that impossible. Perhaps Rossi was right. Who broke into forts? No one. That was the point of them.
They rounded the northwest corner, and the view opened up, the Galt a shimmering silver streak in the blackness, but the wall ran all the way down to the river, where it became sheer, turning eastwards, no bank to clamber along.
“What do you think?” Guyen grunted.
Mist considered. “The water’s freezing. It’s pitch black. I wasn’t planning on drowning tonight.”
“Fuck. Back the way we came then.”
“Looks that way.”
He turned back, suppressing a groan. Would this whole enterprise be a pointless waste of time? They retraced their steps beneath the wall’s dark footprint as the sounds of hammering and coarse ranker humour drifted up unseen from the other side. This was taking too long. He picked up the pace, rounding the northwest corner again, and reached the door in the wall. A glint several yards away caught his eye. He froze.
Mist crashed into the back of him. “What’s the matter?” she hissed.
He pointed. Smoker stood there, grazing on frozen grass. The glint had come from her bridle. That and the rest of her would be visible from the ramparts.
“Ages, Greens. Didn’t you tie her up?”
“Of course.”
“What with, a slipknot?”
“Just a regular—”
A voice called out. “Who’s there?”
Toulesh slammed back in, forcing a sharp intake of breath. The sound of sliding bolts came from behind the door. Mist yanked Guyen backwards, flooring him behind a pile of rubble, as the door opened and a ranker peered out.
He called up to the battlements. “Stablehands left a horse out again, sarge.”
“Round it up then,” a voice called back. “Before we get the blame.”
The man stepped outside.
“This is our chance,” Mist whispered. “Don’t reckon there’ll be another.” Her tone was calm, detached. A quiet click sounded. Her blade.
Guyen swallowed. “What’s the plan?”
“You distract him, I’ll deal.”
Deal? That word had only one meaning as far as she was concerned. Globes! What had they become? “How am I—” She put a finger to his lips. Thoughts raced. This was war, wasn’t it? Anything was justifiable. Hadn’t he wanted revenge on the red-jacketed bastards all these years? But like this?
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